


Schrodinger's Wife

by Echidna



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-05 16:14:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Echidna/pseuds/Echidna





	Schrodinger's Wife

It's one of those nights. 

No Ponds to keep him company, just the man and the box, and big, empty space. It's alright, he supposes, to have some alone time. Time to think. Just him and his thoughts. Good old friends, the thoughts, and guilt, and oh there it all goes. Damn those tricky little thoughts, always going off in their own directions and making a mess of things.  
Ah well. 

He pouts, not to anyone in particular as there's no one to pout at but by god does he pout. If there were anyone around, they would certainly feel bad for him, or maybe laugh in a very Pondish way and remind him that he's 900, not nine. Well, that's alright, just as well, he knows he isn't nine, which is why he's already stopped pouting and gone back to doing important Time Lord things. Time Lords don't mope about when they could be throwing levers and pushing buttons, and saving the universe over fish custard. 

There was no time for moping, anyway. Time Lords don't get lonely, not even the last of them. Natural immunity. Shame the same immunity didn't apply to Earth pollen. Real pity, that. No Earth pollen here though, no Earth anything around, and he tells himself that's for the best. With no human distractions, he has a lot more time for important work to be done. Very important, crucial to the good of the whole galaxy, may or may not actually existing work. 

Until there's a knock at the door. Which, by his calculations, is not good. Very not good even, given his current status is "drifting through nothingness, or close to it", and the things that have the ability to knock on a door in space are not what he wants to deal with right now. But it would be rude to leave them out there, wouldn't it? And he's just a bit curious, not his fault, just in his nature.

But oh. He should have expected her. She was certainly expecting him to be expecting her. 

River Song, impossible River Song, constantly defying the laws of time and space to show up at his door. It's alright by him, really. She's no spitting image of her parents, but he likes the outsides just fine as they are. (Quite a lot, to be specific. Or, very very much.) It's the insides that are pure Pond, all fiery spirit and steadfast loyalty, bundled up in curls and curves. Excellent company on a I'm not lonely at all and please don't assume otherwise night. 

Sometimes, admittedly, it's a little difficult to not think about who or what else he sees when he looks at River. When his thoughts have already been a rowdy bunch, the difficulty increases twofold. There's a gasp that sounds like Rose. A flash of the eyes that could pass for Martha any day. A sharp comment that would surely be Donna approved. And of course, an embrace or a kiss that is nothing but Pond. It's unfair to her, he's sure, or it would be, if she knew. 

Knowing her, she does. She has her ways. 

That has yet to stop her from showing up like this, stepping in at just the right moment, teasing and poking in just the way he needs. It almost scares him just how much like him she can be, moving through time at her own whim, not bound by worldly things, existing in a way few do. It's something of comfort, until he remembers that even she is approaching an end, has already reached it, a Schrodinger's Wife, if you will.

Alive and dead. 

Open the TARDIS, River is alive. 

Open the TARDIS, River is dead. 

Everyone dies. Everyone except him. Isn't that how it always is? 

But no, that's not quite right. Not exactly the way he sees it. He is alive as surely as he walks and breathes, but there are little pieces within him that have-- stopped. Kicked the proverbial bucket. Dead in the water. It's what happens when you love, and love, and love, and continue living when everyone you love cannot. When everyone you love can never see you again. Never remember you. Cold, is how he'd describe the feeling. Very cold. 

Fortunately for him, River is warm. In her arms he only exists in this moment, not in an infinite number of temporal points. Just here. Just her. 

He sighs, quiet and content. 

Maybe he was just a bit lonely tonight, after all.


End file.
